a sumptuous ceremony in the square in front of the castle of Barletta, crowned Ferdinando I of Naples blessing him with the triple title of king of Sicily, Jerusalem and Hungary. Latino had noted the episode and the events of the following days of the coronation on that diary page that had been strangely torn and had disappeared mysteriously from the cardinal's personal archive.
Don Ferrante and Don Tristano were closed in conclave for over two hours.
Before their departure, the pontifical official personally took care of removing the main diplomatic obstruction hindering any relationship between the Holy See and the Neapolitan court: he ensured that the royal secretariat became aware of a few secret missives, obviously false, that the Venetian ambassador to Naples had sent to his doge. In such dispatches the Neapolitan ruler was described as inept, vain, and a libertine. The reaction was immediate.
Thanks to the consequent repatriation of the man from Serenissima and the king's personal esteem, the interview was extremely cordial and, in the end, although Don Ferrante had not come to any decision, it seemed to Tristano that the sovereign was well disposed to considering the reasons set out and to analyze the scenario that had been proposed to him.
And in fact, he was right: two days later he recalled the young pupil of the defunct Cardinal Orsini and verbally informed him that the Kingdom of Naples would take part in the new alliance against Venice. The command would be entrusted to his son Alfonso, the Duke of Calabria, who would also take on the role of captain of the league. The agreement was later formalized and made official on Christmas day.
Tristano was extremely satisfied.
After a rich dinner based on Christmas pastries and sweets, certainly not disdained by the barons and the most courteous representatives of the Neapolitan nobility, the young man decided to retire to his apartment perhaps to try to relax by soaking in a warm tub the His Majesty had generously requested to be prepared.
The elderly woman, who had so thoughtfully set up the bathroom for him, while arranging the last linens in a closet, stared at him persistently. But the numb official paid no mind to her, as he was immersed in his thoughts and unsolved questions at least as far as he was in that steaming tub.
“You have the same eyes. Your mother was a saintly woman,” said the woman before disappearing behind the door of the room.
The one who had been caught dreaming spun around. Those words brought him back to reality like the tone of a bell.
“ Wait,” he shouted in vain.
How did that maidservant known his mother? Had she had the chance to meet her or work with her during the period when the young woman had served at that court? Tristano had to know… He leaped out of the tub and, dried himself as best he could, quickly he put on his shirt, breeches, and boots and rushed to look for her in the palace.
When he reached the service floor, he heard unmistakable human moans, separated by more high pitched grunts mixed with regular squeaks from wooden planks, coming from the room at the bottom of the staircase.
The pastry chef, the sublime architect of those gluttonous sugar architectures that reigned over the tables of the palace banquets, as well as the almond desserts, was as usual filling the young eager servants who tidied up the kitchen at the end of the day. At that moment, however, the young ambassador did not have time for that type of display and casting a fleeting glance, he passed on determinedly.
Beyond the kitchens, in a narrow corridor, he glimpsed a good half of the corpulent profile of a woman, lying on the floor, supine, from the wide-open door of the room, the light from the fireplace lit her face, as if someone had tried to carry the body after felling it. It was the long-sought woman Tristano had been searching for.
Rushing in, the servant was wide-eyed her mouth half-open, she no longer breathed. On the floor of the room he noticed a small deep blue stone, probably part of a lapis lazuli gem similar to those set into the handle of the pursuer's weapon of a few days before.
However, he was warned by the noises coming from the entrance hall and decided to leave before someone noticed his presence, which was hardly justifiable, in that inconvenient place.
The next morning, together with his assistant, he left the castle. In the shadow of a tower, Pietro recognized, among the Duke of Calabria’s henchmen, one of the men who had made the attempt on their safety the day they had arrived and whispering he informed his lord. The latter, however, given the diplomatic result achieved and the still murky situation, decided not to say a word and moved away among the salutations.
Finally, before letting the curtain fall on that mission, at the exit of the inn, where the horses had rested, Tristano noticed a small battered body dragging itself along the street. It was the boy who had hidden them the day before from the threat of Alfonso's thugs; he did not speak, he was filthy and had been beaten, he had a bad wound from a cut on his leg. It was very cold; Tristano took him inside and paid a woman to take care of at least the most obvious injury. The next day he took him to his family and returned him to his elder brother who was waiting for him at the door. The latter, grateful, invited the young diplomat to enter the house (or at least into that hovel that remotely resembled a home): a man, who could have been his father, arranged the provisions of wheat in a small pantry, the mother spun wool, while with one hand she cradled the littlest one, an older woman told stories to the rest of the family who were sitting on an old settle made of chestnut. Before this image of misery, Tristano took advantage of the sudden crackling from the pot on the fire, which attracted the woman's attention, to leave a golden florin under the straw cushion of that pitted mattress of dry leaves on which a rosy girl slept, still with her cloth shoes on her feet. He said goodbye and left.
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